Crash
by GhostWolf7
Summary: Dean loses something dear to him.
1. Chapter 1

**Crash**

_**Chapter 1**_

_Damn, it's cold_, thought Sam. He stood at the edge of the ditch, bouncing up and down to keep warm, ignoring the pain coming from his acing body, its bruises, and the small but deep cut above his left eye. He had needed nine stitches in that cut. He was alone except for the tow truck guy and his truck. The hum of the tow cable brought him out of his thoughts. He could hear the large object in the ditch sliding up the side. It took a minute or two, but finally he could see something of the object coming into the open. In another minute, Sam was staring open-mouthed at the heap of metal before him. _Holy shit_, he thought. Dean was not going to be happy about this.

Sitting in front of Sam was the conglomeration of leather, rubber, and jet-black metal that had once been a black '67 Chevy Impala and the beloved car of one Dean Winchester. Sam could hardly believe that the thing before him had ever been a car. The front end was smashed in, making the hood stick up. The back of the car looked just as bad. The car's sides were also bashed and the doors either wouldn't open or wouldn't close. There was not one piece of glass on the car that wasn't broken. Sam couldn't believe the two of them had survived at all, let alone with only minor injuries.

Sam walked over to the passenger side (or what was left of it) and further opened the already somewhat open front door. The inside looked almost as bad as the outside. The leather seats were covered in gashes from the glass. Sam's own seat was twisted beyond recognition. _It's a good thing I got out of that car when I did_, he thought. He climbed into the car as best he could and found what he was looking for: his dad's journal. He grabbed the journal and the box of fake IDs and Dean's Colt in the glove compartment. He tucked the items under his arm and the gun in his pants as the tow truck guy walked over to him.

"You were in this car?" he asked, shaking his head.

"Most of the time," Sam replied. "Hey…umm…is there any way this car can be fixed?"

The tow truck guy, whose shirt introduced him as Bubba, looked at him for a few moments, and threw his head back in an extremely amused and hearty laugh. "Son," he said when he had regained control of himself, "it would take a miracle to fix that car. There ain't no way that car is going to run again." Bubba started laughing again muttering, "'Can it be fixed?' he says…that's just rich."

"Ha ha," Sam muttered sarcastically under his breath. "Thanks for nothing."

Bubba had regained control of himself once more. "So," he said, clapping Sam on the shoulder and irritating the bruises forming there, "where can I take you?"

"St. Anne's Hospital, please," Sam replied, getting into the truck. _Well, shit_, he thought. Dean wasn't happy when the car even had a scratch on it, but that could be painted over and he would get over it. He was not going to be happy about the fact that half of his tape collection was not playable anymore, but they could probably be replaced. He was definitely not going to like the fact that it barely looked like his car anymore, but he would be okay as long as the car could be fixed. But this, the fact that the car was beyond repair, Dean was going to absolutely _freak_ about this.

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Sam was sitting in the passenger seat watching the scenery pass by and wondering how he was going to tell Dean that his beloved car was beyond help. Sam had always thought that Dean's obsession with his car was stupid and childish, but he still didn't want to be there when he told his brother the news. Bubba pulled up to the hospital. Sam got an address for the junkyard and thanked him. Bubba drove off. Sam walked up to the front doors, took a deep breath, and walked in.

* * *

Dean was the luckiest guy in the world. Here he had been, lying on a bed, and the most beautiful woman in the world had been waiting on him hand and foot. God, he loved hospitals. He was now dressed and making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He didn't want to leave the hospital today. While he had sent Sam to make sure his car was okay, he had had to stay behind because of a slight concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Luckily, his little brother had been smart and ditched the car early, getting off with cuts, bruises, sore muscles and nothing more. Dean realized how lucky he himself was too. It could have been a whole lot worse.

"Do you need anything else?" the nurse asked, sounding rather annoyed. No wonder she was annoyed. Dean had been trying to hit on the woman for two days. Dean looked at her. She had gorgeous brown hair and the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.

Dean was about to say that, yes, he desperately needed a beautiful girl's phone number when Sam walked in. "Here, let me save you from him," Sam said. The nurse gave him an all too grateful smile and left the room.

"Come on, Sam. I almost had a number." Dean was almost whining.

"Dean," Sam replied with a smile, grateful to keep Dean's attention off the car for a little while longer, "I think the closest thing you had to a number was a slap on the face." Dean turned to glare at his brother. Man, Sam could be such a jerk. Those few hours that he was going to check on the car were-the car.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said worriedly. "How's the car?"

_Crap_, Sam thought. He just _had_ to ask about the car. "Heh…funny you should mention the car, Dean," he said. Dean watched his younger brother, realizing that whatever he had to say wasn't good news.

"Sam," he said tentatively, "is my car in one piece?" Sam flinched.

"Yeah, it's in one piece…more or less," Sam said nervously. God, how to tell Dean that his most prized possession was demolished?

"More or less?" Dean replied. "What…what does that mean, more or less?"

Sam sighed. That dreadful, awful, horrific moment had come. He had to tell Dean. "Dean," he started, sucking in a deep breath, "the car…" His voice fell off.

"Hey, Sam, if it's a scratch, I mean, that can be fixed," he said anxiously.

"Dean, it's a little worse than a scratch."

"A dent? That can also be fixed, Sam."

"Uh…Dean…." Sam's voice dropped a little.

"Is a side bashed in? Because that can be fixed, too." Dean was getting more and more worried. The more Sam was silent, the worse the damage probably was. "Sam?"

"Dean, the car is…" Sam stammered. God, why was this so difficult?

"The car is what, Sam?"

Sam stared at the ground, working his mouth, not saying anything.

"What, Sam? The car is what?" Dean almost yelled at his brother in anger, frustration, and worry.

"The car is dead, Dean," Sam almost yelled back. There. He'd said it, he'd finally said it…and immediately wished he hadn't. A look of shock and disbelief had crossed his brother's face.

"I'm sorry…the car is…what?" Dean stammered in response. His car…his baby…it couldn't be…what Sam had said. _If he's joking, I'm gonna kill him_, he thought. But another look at Sam's face told him that his younger brother was far from joking.

"Dead, Dean. The car is dead," Sam replied softly. He wanted to tell his brother that he was just joking, to change the subject, anything, mostly because his brother looked like he was about to kill him.

"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "No, the car can't be dead. It's…it's my car…it…it can't be…be…." He couldn't bring himself to say it. His car was not gone. He looked at Sam. "I want to see it."

Sam couldn't bring himself to resist his brother's wishes. "Okay," he said, "but you're not going to like it."

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean was staring at the remains of his car, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Ah….my…my car!" he exclaimed. He ran around all sides of the car, examining everything, trying to see if there was some way to redeem his beloved Impala. Sam stood quietly behind him, letting his brother have his moment with the car. Unfortunately, others were not so considerate.

"This was your car, son?" Bubba said, walking up behind Dean and putting a hand on his shoulder. Dean just nodded. Then he looked up at Bubba.

"Um…can you fix it?" Dean asked. Sam nearly withered as he stared at his brother. Dean looked like a child whose first pet had just died and was asking his father if he could make the pet wake up again. In a situation like this, it was best to handle it with delicacy.

But Bubba was not a delicate person. He burst into laughter. "Son, it would take the miracle of miracles to make this car work again." Sam's gut fell as he saw Dean's shoulders fall. _Thanks, Bubba_, Sam thought. _You're one great big greasy help_.

"Look," Sam spoke up. "Since we obviously can't drive this car, is there someone around here with a car we _can_ drive?" Sam knew that Dean would have to face reality. His car was gone. He wasn't getting it back. It was that simple. Sad, but simple.

"I've got a car," Bubba said. "It's a little beat up, and I ain't doin' nothin' with it. I'll let you have it."

Sam was a little taken aback by the sudden generosity. "Um…thanks," he said, not quite knowing what to say. He started to follow Bubba, but then looked over at Dean, who was still staring at the car. "Dean…" he started.

"Just give me a minute, Sam," Dean said softly. Sam rolled his eyes and walked over to Bubba's office.

Dean stood in front of the heap of metal that had once been his beloved Impala. He just couldn't believe it was gone. He had been through so much in that car. It was…his baby. He found it hard to accept that he would no longer sit in his car and drive down the open road. Dean took a deep breath, and turned to follow his brother. Taking one last look at his car, he thought to himself, _Anything but a station wagon, anything but a station wagon_.

"Here we go, Dean," Sam said, leaning against the new car. But Dean wasn't looking at Sam; he was looking at the car his brother was leaning against. Sam was leaning… against a station wagon.

"Great," Dean muttered. The two then set about taking everything they could salvage from the Impala and transferring it to the station wagon. Nearly a quarter of their weapons were damaged, and Dean was more than a little upset to find that half his tape collection was missing, but relieved when he found his Metallica tape intact. Luckily, the laptop had been in their motel room. Lastly, Dean pulled the keys, for the last time, out of the ignition of his car. Twenty minutes later, the brothers were ready to go.

Sam tossed Dean the keys. He caught the keys, then looked down at them. He looked back at his car, back at the keys, at the station wagon, back at the keys, then he tossed the keys back to Sam. "You drive," he said. Sam shrugged and climbed in the driver's seat.

Dean climbed into the passenger seat of the station wagon and looked over at his brother as Sam started the engine. "Sam," he said, looking back out the window at the wreckage of his Impala.

"Hm?" Sam said, looking at Dean.

Dean turned to look back at him. "I want the son of a bitch that killed my car." Sam smiled and started the station wagon.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Dean still refused to believe where he was. He kept thinking that he would wake up any minute and find himself in that lousy motel room, with Sam sleeping in the bed next to him, and, most importantly, his car parked outside. But it didn't happen. The more Dean thought about it, the more painfully aware he became that the car was truly gone...but he still refused to believe that he was sitting in a station wagon.

And not just any station wagon. No, _this_ station wagon was brown, the ugliest brown the world had ever seen. Whoever the painter of the car had been, they had done a pretty lousy job of it too. In its best spots, the paint was uneven and splotchy. In its worst, the paint was peeling off the car altogether, exposing hideous and unsightly spots of rust. It was no wonder Bubba wasn't doing anything with it. Dean looked at the car only when absolutely necessary, because every time he did it made him want to hurl into the next century. He missed his Impala.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. As he looked around the inside of the car, he noticed that it looked almost as bad as the outside. The seat he himself was sitting in had large gashes in the cloth upholstery, and the situation of sitting in the car was not made any better by the spring that was making its way into his ass. One quick look at Sam shifting uncomfortably in his own seat told Dean that Sam's luck in upholstery was no better than his own.

Moreover, the floors, seats, and any other scrap of cloth that existed within the confines of the car were covered in stains. Soda stains, beer stains, burrito stains, grease stains, oil stains, and stains that Dean couldn't even identify (and wasn't sure he wanted to) could be found in this particular car. It was a stain smorgasbord, a stain buffet; any stain buff would have a field day in this car. Dean sighed a heavy sigh and leaned against the window, his one remaining treasure, his Metallica tape, playing in the background.

"So, you want to go back to the motel, see what we can find on the net?" Sam asked, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He had tried to be sympathetic, tried to be gentle, but the fact was Sam was annoyed. Sam was annoyed beyond annoyance. Maybe it was just that the music was grating his nerves, but he was sick and tired of Dean's incessant sulking over that car of his. It was just a car, a big, stupid, shiny piece of metal. What was it about that stupid, shiny piece of metal that made Dean love it so much? That crash was horrible. Dean could have _died_. He should be thankful that it wasn't him that turned out like that car. But there Dean was, sitting next to him in the passenger seat, fingering the keys of the dearly beloved car that could have killed him.

"Sure," Dean replied absentmindedly, obviously not noticing his brother's annoyance, which only served to make Sam angrier. He turned his attention back to the road. The rest of the trip to the motel was silent.

* * *

Half an hour later, the brothers were back in the hotel room. Dean was lying on the bed, watching _X-Files_ reruns on the TV. Sam was sitting at the table, laptop before him, trying to find whatever the hell it was that almost killed them. He was having no luck and was, once again, annoyed. He was getting tired of researching. He looked over at his brother, lounging and sulking on the bed, and considered walking over to him and slapping him into reality. _Honestly_, Sam thought, _it's _his_ stupid car. _He's_ the one who wants to find out what totaled it. Why isn't _he_ doing this?_ Sam took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Getting angry was getting him nowhere.

"Find anything?" Dean asked from his place on the bed. Sam looked up, startled. It was the first time his brother had said something to him all night.

"Uh…no," Sam replied. "Tell you the truth, I'm having a really tough time finding something that can push a car off the road."

"How 'bout a werewolf?" Dean suggested.

"Not possible. I think we would have seen a werewolf charging at us," Sam said.

"Yeah…vampire?"

"We probably also would have seen it," Sam said. "Dean, I don't think this is one of the usual suspects. I think we're looking at something new."

"Like what?" Dean asked.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam nearly yelled.

"Man, what is with you?" Dean asked, somewhat offended.

"Nothing," Sam lied. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Whatever, dude," Dean replied. "So I guess it's to the library, then?"

"Looks like," Sam said, grabbing the keys. He walked toward the door and realized that he wasn't being followed. He looked back to see his brother, still lounging on the bed watching his _X-Files_ reruns. "You coming?" he asked.

"Not in that…that _thing_," Dean replied.

Sam sighed. _Fine_, Sam thought. _If Dean wants to just sit around and mope, that's just fine with me. He can mope to his heart's content._ He turned around and walked out the door and out to the station wagon. For a moment, he stood in front of the wagon. He looked at its revolting hide and let out what was probably the hundredth sigh that day. He had never really realized how good he had had it in the Impala and for one moment, just one moment, he truly missed the Impala. Sam shook the thought out of his head and climbed into the station wagon, wincing as his butt was met by the uncomfortable feeling of an errant spring. He put the keys in the ignition and listened to the engine weakly sputter into life. Sam took one look in the rearview mirror to see if Dean had changed his mind and, seeing that he hadn't, drove off to the library.

* * *

Sam's head hit the table with a small _thud_ on the small pile of papers before him and he groaned. _This is pointless_, he thought. They had come here to investigate some suspicious-looking deaths. Their interviews had come up with nothing and on the night of the accident, they were heading back to the motel to pack up and go. Before the accident, they had searched the Internet and the library and had found nothing. Sam had been searching the library once again for an hour and had, once more, found nothing. He was getting nowhere. For the tenth time, he scanned the newspaper records. There had to be some little detail he overlooked, something he missed. But all he found was the same information they already had.

Ten people had died in this town in the last two months. Two more had died in mysterious car crashes. The other eight had all been in near fatal car crashes and had survived. They had all had died of something else later. An eighteen-year-old kid, Theodore Slater, was killed by an assailant with a knife one month after the car crash. There were no fingerprints, no footprints, nothing to suggest that anyone, or anything, was there. A thirty-two-year-old woman, Alexia Halse, was killed in another car crash one week later and three days after she had had her new car serviced. No wires were found cut, no dents in the car, nothing was found to suggest someone had tampered with the car or pushed it over. It could have been a coincidence, but it was highly unlikely that a woman who didn't drink could have two accidents in one week. The other six people were also killed soon after their car crash. And there was no evidence to suggest that whatever was doing this had been human, or even there at all.

Sam sighed. He was frustrated. He was annoyed. He was angry. In fact, he was probably experiencing every negative emotion known to mankind at the moment. He was finding nothing. For once, research wasn't doing them any good. This wasn't like anything they had ever gone up against before. Nothing about these cases was familiar. How were they supposed to look for something when they didn't even know what they were looking for?

Sam began to idly flip through a book of supernatural beings, hoping to hit one of those ridiculous moments when everything miraculously unfolds before your eyes that only happens when they're running out of time on the TV. He jumped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the caller. It was Dean. Sam answered the phone. "Yeah?" he said.

"You find anything?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam replied. "Just the same old information; nothing we've missed. You have any ideas?"

"What are we dealing with?" Dean said.

"Eight people in near fatal car crashes and two more fatal. The eight people that survived were killed later in either another car crash or a different way. All of the deaths show nothing to suggest that anything touched the car, the weapon, or even entered the room," Sam said.

"Sounds kind of like that shadow demon thing," Dean replied.

"Yeah, but that thing didn't need a knife," Sam replied.

Sam heard Dean sigh on the other end. "You're right," Dean said. "We're blind here, Sammy. Even Dad's journal doesn't mention anything like this."

"So, how did it kill people with a knife without leaving a trail of any kind? And how is it unable to be seen?" Sam wondered aloud.

"I don't know," admitted Dean.

Sam heard his brother laughing on the other end. "What?" he asked.

"Huh? Oh," Dean said. "I was just watching this episode where there's apparently some alien who can posses objects. Crazy, huh?"

Sam was silent, stunned. Here was one of those stupid miraculous moments straight out of TV. _God_, he thought. _You would think this was TV or something_. Sam shook off his amazement and madly flipped through the book he had been flipping through out of boredom and frustration only minutes before. Then he found what he was looking for: the norass. "Dean, you're a genius."

"Yeah, I know…Wait, what?" he said.

"Listen," Sam said. "'The norass is a creature with no definite appearance. It has the ability to possess inanimate objects and takes pleasure in using these abilities to cause human beings to suffer. Usually a vengeful creature, it will stalk the human that escaped its first plans until that its designs upon that human are completed. Victims of the norass can suffer from anything as trivial as a childish prank to something as serious as severe physical injury and even death.' Sounds like our culprit."

"Son of a bitch," Dean said. "My baby was _possessed_? I can't believe that stupid little shit. It _possessed_ my car? Oh, I'm going to kill that freakin' bastard. No one possesses my car. That little-"

"Dean, can you rant some other time?" Sam said, cutting Dean off.

"Does that fascinating book tell us how to kill the bastard?" Dean asked.

Sam scanned the passage. "It says that every norass is afraid of something. But their fears are all different, depending on their nature. It says that its particular fear is the only thing that can kill it."

"Great. So we have to find this thing's fear?" Dean said.

"Looks like," said Sam.

Dean sighed. "Perfect. Hey, before we do that, can you tell me again that I'm a genius?"

Sam smiled. "Maybe later. I'll be back in a few."

"Okay," said Dean. He hung up.

Sam got up and headed for the station wagon. As he was finding his keys, another person got out of his car. The man looked at the car, then at Sam, then back at the car. "Is that your _car_?" he asked.

Sam looked at the man and back at the car. "Yeah," he mumbled, quickly unlocking the door and getting in the wagon as he heard the man's snickers. He sighed as he put the keys in the ignition, started the car, and drove away.

* * *

A/N: Okay. I admit it. There's no such thing as a norass. I had to make something up for the creature in this story. I hope that's not a problem for you. I promise not to make any creatures up in the future. I just needed to for this story. (And sorry it took so long to update.) 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing or no one you recognize.

Chapter 3

Sam hated detours. An accident on the way back to the motel had forced him to try and find an alternate route. He had asked around, but everyone he talked to gave him a different answer. He chose the one that sounded shortest. It seemed so long driving it, though. Or maybe it just seemed long to Sam, having to make the journey in an old ugly brown station wagon with a spring trying to make its way up his butt while Metallica screamed away into the night. He had tried several times to turn the music off, but the radio was crap, so it was either Metallica or nothing, and the more Sam thought about it, the more natural, the more familiar, it seemed to have Metallica, Black Sabbath, or some other music of that kind playing in the background.

Sam inwardly laughed at his own thoughts. He had never figured he'd see the day when he found himself actually yearning for some "mullet rock." But it was the only thing familiar to him now. This car was different, and he found himself for a moment wanting more than anything to be back in the Impala. _I guess it's true_, he thought. _You never know what you've got until you lose it_.

Sam's cell phone rang, breaking him out of his thoughts. As he reached down to pick up the phone to see who was calling him, he failed to notice the way the rearview mirror changed on its own. The call was from Dean.

"What," Sam said.

"Dude, where are you?" Dean asked.

"There was an accident on the normal route," Sam answered. "I was forced to take a detour."

"An accident?" Dean asked. "Was it—"

"No, it wasn't the norass," Sam answered before his brother could get the whole question out. "Just a normal accident, but it sure screwed up the traffic. Word of advice, Dean: don't ask anyone in this town for directions. These people suck at it."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Dean said. "So, you got any idea what that thing's fear is?"

"Dean," Sam said, "that could be anything from iron to holy water to, I don't know, black candles. I have no idea what this thing's fear is."

"Okay, okay," Dean said. "I just want to find out so I can kill the son of a bitch."

"I know, Dean," Sam replied.

Dean sighed. As he watched Agent Mulder get attacked by something yet again on the TV, a thought occurred to him. "Hey, Sam," he said.

"Yeah?" Sam replied.

"Did that book happen to say how long a norass waits before it attacks again?" Dean asked.

"No," Dean heard Sam say. "Why do you as-" Dean's gut wrenched and he was suddenly nauseous as he heard the tires of the wagon squeal against the road on the other end.

"Sam, are you okay?" Dean asked, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

"Dean," Sam said, sounding a little shaken. "It's back." The car wrenched from his control again and Sam dropped the phone. Sam grabbed the wheel, trying to steer the car away from the doom he was certain was waiting for him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tree, and then he saw nothing else.

Dean's heart dropped when he heard the painful sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. "Sam?" he asked tentatively, hoping with everything he had that there would be an answer.

There was no answer.

"Sam?" he said louder. Still no answer. "C'mon, Sammy, talk to me! Sammy!"

On the other end, Dean's cries did nothing but blend with the sounds of the station wagon as Sam lay unconscious and bleeding against the steering wheel, and Metallica screamed away into the night.

- - -

Sam awoke unable to breathe. Every time he tried to take in air, his chest felt as though it would explode. When he tried to move off the steering wheel, intense pain in his chest made him immediately go back to his original position. He never opened his eyes. He just stayed in the dark, trying to regain his senses.

Dean was racing down every road he could find as fast as the abandoned green car he had "borrowed" could go. His brother wasn't answering him, and that was never a good thing. He kept the line open, saying his brother's name, just in case Sam found a way to answer. _C'mon, Sam_, Dean thought frantically. _Where the hell are you? Just say something, Sammy, anything._

Sam couldn't hear very clearly. He could hear a voice, but he couldn't make out who it was or what it was saying. He tried to remember, but every time he tried, his head hurt. As seconds passed like hours, Sam found his hearing begin to clear, and he heard the voice clearly. "Sammy!" it said. "C'mon, Sammy, answer me." It sounded worried, but Sam couldn't remember who the voice belonged to; he barely remembered who "Sammy" was. He felt like he ought to know who was talking to him, though, and the notion kept gnawing at his mind.

Suddenly it hit him. Dean. Dean was trying to reach him, and Sam knew he had to try to answer. Sam took an all-too-painful swallow and, with his eyes still closed, tried to say something. "Dean," he mumbled. His throat burned, and his voice sounded weak and broke even at that one word. But he had to try again. "Dean," he said, still sounding hurt, but it was stronger; strong enough, he hoped, for his brother to hear him.

"Dean," Dean heard over his phone. The voice was weak, hurt, but still undoubtedly his little brother's.

"Sammy?" Dean said, his voice thick with worry. He waited for an answer, just to be sure he'd heard it. There was no answer for some time, and Dean began to think that he had just been hearing things.

"Dean," came the response. Dean's heart skipped a beat; he had hardly expected Sam to answer. Sam also sounded far away, like he wasn't holding the phone close to him.

"Thank God," Dean breathed. "Sammy, are you okay?"

Again Sam took a while to answer. "No," Sam said simply. Dean thought he could hear Sam's breathing. It sounded labored and painful, and Dean worried that his brother was slipping.

"Okay," Dean said. "Just try and stay awake, alright?" Silence. "Sammy?"

"I'm…I'm here, Dean," Sam said. He said it slowly, forcing the words to come out of his mouth, trying to make his voice loud enough to be heard on the other end. It must have worked, because he heard Dean answer him.

"Okay, Sammy," Dean said, trying to calm his voice down. "Do you know where you are?"

"No," Sam replied.

"Sam," Dean said. "You have to work with me. Try to think back, Sam. What road were you on when you were attacked?"

"I…I don't know, Dean," Sam replied. His head hurt him.

"Sammy," Dean said sternly. "Sammy, listen to me. If you can't remember where you are, it'll take me longer to find you. I need you to tell me where you are. Please, Sam."

Sam thought back, trying to push past the way his head pounded whenever he so much as thought about thinking. Like a slideshow played backwards, he flashed the images of his past experience in his mind: the tree, talking to Dean, driving down Dannery Road—

"Dannery Road," Sam said. "I think I'm on Dannery Road."

"Okay, Sammy," Dean said. "I'm coming. I'll be there soon, Sammy. Just hang on."

"Okay," Sam said, his voice so faint his brother could hardly hear him on the other end.

"What was that, Sam?" Dean asked, afraid he was losing his brother.

"I said 'Okay,' Dean," Sam replied weakly.

It took Dean twenty agonizing minutes to find out where Dannery Road was and actually get there. Sam was right; these people did give sucky directions. Dannery Road was a long road, and it took Dean another fifteen minutes to actually find the wreckage of the station wagon. Dean felt sick as he saw the wreckage. The driver's side was bashed in. Dean pulled the green car over by the now useless station wagon. He had barely turned the car off before he was out of the car and next to the wreckage. He opened the passenger side door of the wagon.

There was Sam, lying against the steering wheel. His right arm, which was hooked around the wheel, was most obviously broken; the bone stuck out of his skin. His chest was pressed against the steering wheel and it looked like he was having trouble breathing, and his eyes were closed.

"Sammy?" Dean asked gently, reaching out to touch his brother's neck and find a pulse. At his brother's touch, Sam reacted, his body jumping and immediately he started half-convulsing in the pain of moving. "God, Sammy," Dean said.

"Dean?" Sam said weakly without opening his eyes.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me," Dean said. "We've gotta get you to a hospital. Can you move?"

"It hurts my chest whenever I do," Sam replied.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'm gonna call an ambulance, alright? Just stay with me, okay?"

"Okay, Dean," Sam said. Dean hung up the line with his brother and called 911. It took half an hour for the ambulance to get there, and for Dean, every minute felt like an eternity. He kept his brother talking, but Sam didn't seem too interested in staying awake. Dean drove the stolen car behind the ambulance all the way to the hospital and he was herded through the Emergency Ward, where he waited for three hours for someone to come out and tell him what the hell was going on. Three long, long hours. Dean sat in the waiting room, his emotions switching sporadically between worry for his brother and utter hatred for the thing that put him in the hospital. The norass took his car, half his tapes, and almost took his brother, and Dean wanted its head on a platter, literally. Dean was going to kill the son of a bitch if it was the last thing he did.

"Are you Mr. Brown?" said a voice above him. It broke Dean out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a balding man with glasses looking at him questioningly. His name tag identified him as Dr. Haskell.

"Uh, yes," Dean stammered, standing up. "Yes, I am. Is my brother okay?"

"Well," the older doctor said, taking off his glasses, "your brother had quite the accident. His right arm and collarbone are broken, and he has a cracked sternum. The latter is probably his worst injury, and will hurt him for several weeks. The wound on his head was reopened and we had to stitch it up again. He'll be alright, but we need to keep him here. We should be able to release him in about two days."

"Can I see him?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," said the doctor. "You can see him. He's awake now, but he's a little dazed. The sedative we gave him earlier hasn't completely worn off yet."

"Thanks, Doc," Dean said. He walked over to his brother's room, where he saw Sam lying on the hospital bed. His arm was put in a sling and his head had a bandage over the new stitches. He looked dazed and disoriented, but at least he was alive. Dean walked over and sat in the chair next to Sam's bed. "Hey, sunshine," Dean said.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, his words a little slurred.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asked.

"Kind of tired," Sam replied, his eyelids drooping a little as he said so.

"Maybe you should go back to sleep, then," Dean said. "Just one question, though."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"How're the nurses?" Dean asked with a smile.

Sam chuckled, wincing from the pain in his chest as he did so, and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.

- - -

"Dammit," Dean said from the bathroom of the motel.

Sam was sitting on one of the beds, his right arm still in a sling. It had been three days since Sam had gotten out of the hospital, and he was still in pain from the crash. "What is it?" he asked when he heard his brother curse.

"We're out of freakin' toothpaste," Dean said, coming out of the bathroom. "And shaving cream. I'm gonna have to get some."

"I think I saw a WAL-Mart on the way back," Sam said to his brother.

"Yeah," Dan replied. "I saw it too. I'm gonna go and get some toothpaste and some shaving cream. I'll be back as soon as I can. You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Dean," Sam said.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Okay, Dean," Sam said. "Seriously, I'll be fine."

"Okay," Dean said, still hanging back a little, wanting to make sure Sam would be okay. Finally, Dean was out the door. He turned away from the door, and what he saw made him jump. Standing on the pavement was Bubba, the mechanic, and he was leaning against the same ugly brown station wagon that Sam had crashed in. "Shit, man," Dean said. "What are you doing here?"

"I fixed up the wagon," Bubba said. "Happened to have the right part in the junkyard, so I thought I'd fix the wagon, seeing as you ain't got nothing else to drive." Dean looked. The new door on the station wagon was white, and it stuck out a little on the car. Dean had never thought it was possible, but the car actually looked uglier. He wondered how it was possible that it was even fixable. _It's like the undead car_, he thought.

"Great," Dean said, without really meaning it. "Yeah, thanks, Bubba. That was, uh, real thoughtful of you."

"You sure are welcome, boy," Bubba said with a smile. "I'm happy to help whenever I can." He walked away then, getting in his tow truck to go God-knows-where and do God-knows-what, leaving Dean facing the hideous Frankenstein of a station wagon that was his only form of transportation.

_Super_, he thought. He forced himself to get into the wagon, fingering the keys to his Impala as he did so, just to keep himself from hurling. He turned on the radio-Metallica was still playing- and drove off. He hated the drive, even though it was only about five or ten minutes long. He wanted more than anything to get out of that car, and he found it a blessed relief when he pulled into the WAL-Mart parking lot and was finally able to get out of the car. He kept fingering his old keys as he walked into the store.

Dean walked up and down the aisles, trying not to dawdle too much, but wanting to take some time before he had to force himself to get back in that hideous station wagon. He soon found the toothpaste he was looking for, and a few aisles away he found the shaving cream, across from the toy aisles. Dean couldn't help but smile as a little boy tugged on his mother's sleeve and asked if he could have the latest robot toy. His mother, standing by a display of pink teddy bears, tried to tell the boy that, no, he couldn't have the toy, but the boy just looked at her with big watery eyes and begged her again for the toy. She smiled and finally relented, taking the toy and putting it into her cart. Dean shook his head with a smile and turned away, only to get hit in the face by a flying can of shaving cream.

Dean reeled backwards, stunned. He started looking for whoever threw the can at him…and saw no one. Dean looked harder; something had to have thrown that can. He turned around to look at the can and saw it stand upright on its own, and then realization hit Dean. "Shit," he said under his breath. The can of shaving cream flew at his face again. This time, Dean dodged it. The can flew up to the top of the shelves, and then it stopped in midair and fell back down to the ground with a clang.

"What the—?" Dean said, confused. He soon found the answer, though, when the shelf he was standing next to started shaking. "Aw, man," Dean said to himself when the whole shelf tilted and he was bombarded with cans of shaving cream, bars of soap, and bottles of shampoo and such as he tried to get out of the aisles before it all came down on him. He barely made it out of the aisle when the whole thing came crashing down, knocking over the next shelf and the next and the next. Dean stared at the damage. _I need to get out of here_, he thought. He didn't think about much else as a blue cart came and smashed him in the stomach, sending him flying backwards into the display of surprisingly soft fuzzy pink teddy bears. Dean looked up to see a large box hurtling towards his head. He ducked; the box sailed just above his head and lifted up, readying itself for another go. Dean, desperate for a weapon, grabbed the thing closest to him: one of the teddy bears in the display he was lying in. He flung it at the floating box. The arm of the teddy bear just brushed the box. All of a sudden, there was a screaming sound, like a frightened animal in pain, and an ethereal dark blue smoke rose from it. The box dropped to the floor and the smoke disappeared, leaving Dean sitting in the pile of pink teddy bears wondering what the hell had just happened.

Dean looked at the box, then at the air, then down to the teddy bears, then back up to the air, then back down to the teddy bears. And then it hit him.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he said.

Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter's not as funny as the rest of the story. I plan on changing that later in the story, so I hope this darker chapter hasn't made you think the story's gonna change, because it's not. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter as much as the rest of them. Thanks for reading. Oh, and I'm terribly sorry that it took so long to update.


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